Highnoon wɔ Anti-Atlas no so

02/13/23 Sidi Ifni – Tafraout We want to leave at 9:00 a.m. My alarm goes off at 7:30 a.m. I have learned that I need to take time for departure. When I rush, mistakes happen, I overlook things that I regret during the journey. A cutlery box that is not locked and sounds the alarm in every turn, a trash can that I haven't emptied, or - worst of all - I forget to prepare the candy as a reward for every 50-kilometer stage - but I have to be in a hurry.

Today, I'm giving myself extra time. Saying goodbye is not easy for me. I have gotten used to falling asleep with the sound of the Atlantic and having breakfast with a view of its waves. For me, this was the most beautiful parking spot I have ever been to. I have certainly seen places with more modern facilities, but here, everything you need is available. And even if the power supply failed or the water in the shower wasn't completely hot - so what, this view, this magnificent panorama made up for everything. And more than that: It deeply impressed me. It will remain unforgettable for me.

Unforgettable - this accolade would also be deserved by the route between Sidi Ifni and Tafraout. The route over the Anti-Atlas, the oldest part of the Atlas Mountains, offered a wild mix of breathtaking panoramas, exciting and not entirely safe situations, and pure thrills. The wind, which became stronger and stronger as we climbed the pass and turned into a storm at an altitude of almost 2,000 meters, contributed a good deal. Serpentine roads, barely as wide as two vehicles, led us steeply uphill. On one side, there was a drop of 50, maybe 100 meters, often straight down, on the other side, rock walls rose, threatening, as if they would throw rocks and stones at us at any moment. Bernd in front of me was lucky: when stones and branches suddenly flew, an emergency brake saved him from worse.

I was tired when we started, but now I was wide awake. When my motorhome was suddenly moved half a meter to the left or right by a gust of wind as if by magic, I could almost feel the adrenaline shooting up through my body to the tips of my hair. Wind and nature were not the only challenges. Again and again, we had to avoid men carrying huge black bags on foot or vehicles like that Mercedes, estimated to be 100 years old, blowing black smoke from the exhaust and held together only by its yellow, red, and blue colors. In the back, I saw four heads and in the front three, and the driver overtook me in a curve where he could not possibly keep an eye on oncoming traffic. Unimaginable what would have happened if there had been a collision here. And on the radio, Madeleine Peyroux was singing her Summerwind...

Arriving at the top of the pass, we took a break in a large space in front of an abandoned restaurant. Our ten motorhomes moved close together. I saw them rocking in the wind in front of me, swaying to the music in rhythm. The sand was pelting down on us. It almost sounded like a downpour was hitting us. A look at the clock: noon. When we started again after 15 minutes, thick raindrops actually splattered on the windshield. Sand and water made the road as slippery as grease. And now it was downhill. High noon...

But when we went around the next mountain, a completely different picture presented itself to us: the mountains were just hills, between which the road meandered almost leisurely downhill, past mountain villages where time seemed to have stood still. The wind and rain were gone. Completely. From one second to the next. "That was almost a bit like a roller coaster," I heard a voice on the radio, "and we didn't have to pay anything." Yes, luckily, because if we had, it could have been expensive...